


a quiet undoing

by starstrung



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Blowjobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Dry Humping, M/M, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26802823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstrung/pseuds/starstrung
Summary: Wilde has never quite been able to read Barnes, which should frighten him, but there’s something dependable about the man, an honesty to his actions and his words which makes his presence soothing rather than suspicious.
Relationships: Commander James Barnes/Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 54





	a quiet undoing

Wilde makes himself get back into his stance, forces his aching muscles to raise his practice sword again, like Barnes has shown him.

“Again,” Wilde tells Barnes.

Barnes looks him over dispassionately. “You’ve done enough training for today. You should rest.”

“One more drill,” Wilde says, stubbornly.

Barnes shrugs. “Fine.” He gets into his stance.

Barnes is showing him how to defend today. Wilde had asked him for sword lessons after he was attacked, after Bosie, his face covered in blue veins, his eyes mad and unsettlingly bright, had taken a knife to Wilde’s face and cut it open. Wilde refuses to feel that helpless ever again.

Barnes attacks him, using the same basic training form that he’s been using all day. Wilde reacts with the first parry, neatly blocking the first blow, letting his feet fall into the pattern that Barnes showed him. He keeps his stance light, refusing to give Barnes an opening. He’s doing well, at first.

Then Barnes goes at him from his left side, Wilde’s weak side. Wilde isn’t fast enough. His muscles are too tired, his reflexes are slowed from lack of sleep. Barnes easily disarms Wilde, and Wilde loses his footing, falling back to the ground, mud splattering on his clothes.

Barnes throws down both swords. “We’re done,” he says.

“Again,” Wilde snarls, getting to his feet.

“I don’t think so,” Barnes says. He pauses, then says, “If you keep touching it, it’s not going to heal right.”

Wilde freezes. He hadn’t even realized he was rubbing at his wound. It doesn’t hurt that much anymore, with the help of Zolf’s magic, but the skin is still tender and raw, the jagged mark standing stark against the rest of his face. Wilde will carry this scar for the rest of his life. A mark of his mistakes, for everyone to see.

“It’s fine,” Wilde says, but he drops his hand.

“We’ll continue training tomorrow,” Barnes says. “I’m going to take a bath. You should too.”

As easy as that, Barnes heads back into the inn. Wilde follows after him, a little bemused. He’s never quite been able to read Barnes, which should frighten him, but there’s something dependable about the man, an honesty to his actions and his words which makes his presence soothing rather than suspicious.

They go to the baths, both undressing quietly. They’ve seen each other naked countless times by now, either in the baths or in quarantine, checking each other over for blue veins. Wilde, by now, is used to seeing Barnes’ tanned muscled body, dark coarse hair across his chest and his legs, a collection of scars from a life of battles and seafaring, his cock hanging heavy against his thigh.

Wilde looks away before he’s caught staring. All right, so perhaps he’s not _entirely_ used to it.

He gets into the bath first, groaning a little at the feeling of hot water against sore muscles. It’s been so long since Wilde has used his body like this. He misses doing magic, misses the feeling of power thrumming in his throat, erupting out of song. He misses the simple artistry of crafting an illusion, of weaving reality around him into something new. 

He’s practically useless now. A liability. If Curie didn’t still have a use for him, Wilde wouldn’t be worth anything to anyone.

Barnes gets into the baths across from him, letting out his own appreciative grunt. He’s otherwise silent. If Wilde can count on Barnes for one thing, it’s to let Wilde get lost in his own thoughts. In fact, Barnes is so quiet, that Wilde thinks he’s fallen asleep.

That is, until Barnes opens his eyes and says, “You keep going like this, you’re going to burn yourself out.”

“I’m fine,” Wilde says, absently. It’s practically a reflex.

“Tell me what you need,” Barnes says.

“I don’t _need_ anything from you.”

“You sure?” Barnes says. “Then why do you keep putting yourself through that?” He gestures at Wilde with a hand. Wilde looks down, and sees that his arms and legs are covered in bruises from training.

“I asked you to train me so that I wouldn’t be defenseless,” Wilde says, getting angry now. Barnes has no right to act like Wilde doesn’t know what he’s doing. “It’s for the team. It’s so that I’m not a—”

“A what?” Barnes says, gentle. Gods, there’s so much fucking compassion in his eyes. Wilde hates it. 

“A burden. A weakness,” Wilde says, nearly spitting it out.

Barnes stands up out of the water, walks over to where Wilde is, and sits down next to him, close enough that Wilde can feel the brush of bare skin against his own. Barnes puts a hand to the side of Wilde’s face, his thumb gently tracing over Wilde’s scar, and says, “You’re not weak for making a mistake. Believe me, I’ve made fucking plenty of them myself.”

Wilde just stares at him, his heart beating too quickly in his chest. Barnes’ words, and the gentle way he’s touching him right now just wipe him blank. 

Again, Barnes says, “Tell me what you need.”

“Shut up,” Wilde says, and kisses Barnes. He means for it to be an angry, desperate thing, biting at Barnes’ lips, trying to provoke him into something rough and quick and violent. The injured side of his face is too stiff, twinging unpleasantly, and Wilde makes a frustrated noise and fights against it. 

“Slower,” Barnes says, scolding him. He puts a heavy hand to the back of Wilde’s neck and guides Wilde so easily into something slower, gentler, like Wilde isn’t Wilde at all, but someone else, someone you could treat like this, like something precious.

“All right,” Barnes says, pulling away. Wilde watches, a little stunned, as Barnes gets out of the bath, dripping wet and entirely unashamed of his nakedness. He dries himself off with a towel, and then wraps one around his waist.

“Well? Are you coming?” Barnes asks, raising an eyebrow.

Wilde lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Yes,” he says, getting out of the bath as quickly as he can, and grabbing a towel so he can dry himself off.

“Careful of your bruises,” Barnes says, and before Wilde can stop him, Barnes takes the towel out of his hand and begins to dry Wilde off. It’s done with far more care than Wilde was showing himself, thorough without pressing too deep in any of the tender places. Barnes even takes the time to dry Wilde’s hair, which is growing longer now, little by little. The act of it is intimate in a way that Wilde isn’t used to. He can feel the warmth of Barnes around him, can smell him, but it doesn’t _itch_ the way other people’s presences do. 

By the time Barnes steps away, there is a curious heaviness settling in Wilde’s chest. He feels _exposed_ , like Barnes has seen something in Wilde that Wilde has been desperately trying to hide, and accepted it. Something in him loosens, goes slack and trusting.

Wilde doesn’t realize he’s been standing there with his head bowed, not doing anything, until Barnes hands him a clean towel. Wilde wraps this around his waist.

“You good?” Barnes asks.

“Yes,” Wilde says. He wants to kiss Barnes again, he realizes. He wants Barnes to put his tongue in Wilde’s mouth, take away his control, let Wilde stop thinking. He doesn’t realize he’s leaning forward until Barnes puts a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

“Not here,” Barnes says. He sounds amused. “Pretty sure you’re more high maintenance than a fuck in a bath.”

Wilde blinks, and then laughs, a little startled. Teasing. He forgot how it felt to be teased. He tries to give Barnes a winning smile, and then winces when it pulls against his wound. If Barnes notices the way Wilde’s expression quickly shutters, he doesn’t give it away. “Then lead the way,” Wilde says, resisting the urge to rub at his face.

To his surprise, Barnes takes them to Wilde’s room, instead of his own. Once they’re inside, Barnes pulls Wilde to him by his hips and begins to kiss him, slowly, deeply, walking them towards the bed. Wilde, growing impatient, pushes Barnes so that he sits on the bed, and then he gets to his knees in front of him and begins to tug at the towel around his waist.

“Wait,” Barnes says, stopping Wilde with a hand tight around his wrist. Even just that small show of strength sends delightful shivers through him. “You sure you want to do this? It won’t hurt your wound?”

“You asked me what I need,” Wilde says. “This is what I need.”

Barnes looks at him a long time, like he’s puzzling Wilde out, pulling apart his intentions, seeking the hidden meaning. Wilde stares defiantly back, refusing to back down.

“All right,” Barnes says, and this time he lets Wilde take away his towel.

Barnes is already half hard, which is very flattering. Wilde immediately takes the head of Barnes’ cock into his mouth, running his tongue against the underside, moaning a little at the feeling of it thickening in his mouth, growing harder. 

Above him, Barnes takes a shaky, steadying breath, his hands pressed flat against his thighs, something so disciplined about the rigid way he’s holding himself, a remnant of his navy upbringing, perhaps. 

Wilde would smile if his wound would let him, and if he didn’t currently have Barnes’ cock in his mouth. He settles instead on taking Barnes’ hands and guiding them to the back of his head.

He lifts his head up, and says, “I won’t break.” And then he lowers his mouth and takes Barnes into his mouth, sinking down deep enough that his gag reflex is tested, and his wound stretches uncomfortably. But this is familiar, this is something Wilde remembers, something he’s skilled at. 

He may not be able to handle a sword, but he knows the intricacies of sex, he knows how to drive someone out of their mind with lust, how to be good, how to distract. He’s had lovers in the past tell him he was made for this, made to be fucked. Wilde had found it quite flattering at the time.

Barnes doesn’t seem to be opposed to it either, judging by the soft rumbling noises he’s making, the way his hips keep shifting restlessly like he’s doing his best not to fuck Wilde’s throat. Wilde wouldn’t mind that so much, although he’d have to ask Zolf to heal his throat afterwards to keep from losing his voice. Another time. For now Wilde is happy with the way Barnes fingers are twisting in his hair, the small twinges of pain just enough to make this good.

“Wilde,” Barnes says, urgently, signaling Wilde that he’s getting close.

Wilde doesn’t pull away, keeps his mouth on Barnes’ cock. He sucks on it in just that way, and then Barnes is letting out a low grunt and shooting into Wilde’s mouth. Wilde swallows it down expertly — it may have been a long time since he’s done this, but not long enough for him to lose that particular skill. 

When he finally straightens up, there is a quiet, reverent sort of expression on Barnes’ face. Wilde quickly looks away. Barnes doesn’t let him, takes his chin and lifts it up to him, tilting it far enough that Wilde gasps, his spine going taut. Now that Barnes has come, there is a noticeable change in his energy, something darker and more commanding in the way he’s looking at Wilde that makes heat coil in his gut. Wilde is suddenly, painfully aware of how hard he is beneath his towel.

“What do you need, Wilde?” Barnes says, his voice gone flat and unyielding, in a way that Wilde _loves_ because it means he doesn't have to think anymore.

“I need to come. Please, let me come,” Wilde says, barely a whisper. 

Barnes tilts his head, like he’s considering it. “Yeah, all right. You’ve done a good job. I’ll let you get yourself off on my leg. How about that?”

Oh, _fuck_. Wilde’s brain shorts out at just the thought of it, of rutting against Barnes’ leg, taking his pleasure like some mindless beast. He can’t even answer Barnes’ question, so thoroughly wiped blank.

Barnes tightens his grip on Wilde's chin. “Is that all right, Wilde?” His eyes are serious, checking in with Wilde. Wilde is not used to this consideration. He can’t remember the last time someone didn’t just take what they wanted from him without asking for it first.

Wilde nods.

Barnes taps his finger against the side of Wilde’s jaw, a gentle reprimand. “I need to hear you say it.”

Wilde licks his lips and forces his throat to work. “Yes. Yes, it’s all right.”

Barnes eyes go warm. For the first time, Wilde sees him smile, just the smallest turning of his lips. Wilde wants to live in that warmth, wants to feel it all around him. 

“Good boy,” Barnes says, and Wilde can’t help the shiver that goes through his body.

Barnes takes off Wilde’s towel and throws it to the side of the room. Then he moves his leg so that it’s resting between Wilde’s thighs, guiding Wilde so that Wilde’s cock rubs against Barnes’ bare calf. Wilde lets out a mortifying noise at that first glorious friction. Barnes puts a gentle hand in Wilde’s hair, pushing his head down so that it rests against Barnes’ thigh.

Thus arranged to Barnes' liking, Wilde begins to rut against Barnes’ leg. Barnes pets his hair through it, murmuring encouragement, and it would be so unbearably _tender_ if not for the fact that what Wilde is doing is so filthy. It makes something go hazy and blissful in Wilde’s head. He feels overwhelmed with pleasure, so absurdly grateful to Barnes for letting him do this, for not judging, for letting Wilde let go for even just this small moment.

Gods, it feels so fucking good.

He’s probably making a mess against Barnes’ leg, so turned-on that his cock is leaking, covering Barnes’ skin in slick pre-come that just makes it feel even better. Wilde is so close. He’s gasping into Barnes’ thigh now, his hands clenched so tightly that his nails are digging into his palms.

“Go on, Wilde,” Barnes says, quietly, and Wilde does. With a mortifying cry, he comes against Barnes’ leg, his hips losing their rhythm as he ruts his way through it. His thoughts go utterly blank, fragmented. For a long time, Wilde floats.

When he comes back to himself, mind still fuzzy and slow, he’s aware first of Barnes’ hand, which is still in his hair, petting him slowly.

“Feel better?” Barnes says, quietly.

“I suppose,” Wilde says. He nuzzles his face into Barnes’ thigh, feeling more content than he has in a long time. He hears Barnes chuckle quietly.

“Up,” Barnes says. “You’re not falling asleep here, comfortable as my lap is.”

Wilde reluctantly straightens, and then the shame of what he’s done hits him. He’s made such a _mess_. “Fuck. Barnes. I apologize, I can clean this up, let me—”

“Enough,” Barnes says. It’s gentle, but firm, and there’s enough of a command in it that Wilde, in the state that he’s in, has no choice but to nod dumbly.

“I’ll handle it. You get some rest,” Barnes says. He pets the side of Wilde’s face, the uninjured side. “You’ve done enough. It’s all right.”

Wilde takes in a shaky breath. Just those words, that quiet affirmation, it’s enough to break something in him, some last self-hatred he was clinging onto, some resolve to punish himself for all the things he could have done better. He nods again.

He’s so tired. He’s been tired for so long, and didn’t let himself feel it. Barnes makes sure that Wilde is in bed, and then he turns to go, his towel wrapped around his waist once again.

“Barnes,” Wilde says. He sees Barnes pause in the doorway.

“Thank you,” Wilde says. “I did need that.”

“Yeah,” Barnes says, with an easy confidence. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/star_strung).


End file.
